


We Could Steal Time Just For One Day

by Arrestzelle



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Dancing, Established Relationship, Feeling B era, Fluff, Light Angst, Living Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:34:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26809696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: But if it’s just the two of them, lost in the recesses of their place of contentment, nothing is a guise. Paul can dance to David Bowie and worry about nothing. Flake has seen it, firsthand, you know. Paul dancing to something as musically smooth and gentle as David Bowie is like the falling snow outside, rather than the lightning storms of their own music, their own scene. Flake could sit and watch it, and feel inexplicably warm, instead of running to escape its unpredictability, its hysteria.Paul and Flake dance to David Bowie.
Relationships: Paul Landers/Christian Lorenz | Flake
Comments: 23
Kudos: 22





	We Could Steal Time Just For One Day

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to watching Jojo Rabbit, I discovered that David Bowie sings a German version of [Heroes (Helden)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R5n0nfZ_9kg) that I am currently obsessed with. Flake and Paul dance to the English version, though, because the vinyl with the German version doesn't have the full album (at least, as my research reflects lol).

It’s snowing outside. Delicate flakes falling in an obscuring fog of white beyond their windows. The heating in this flat is poor—that is to say, if it even existents at all. Thus, Flake is making them hot chocolate, dressed in a thick sweater with holes along the sleeve, a result of getting caught (repeatedly) on the low fence which bordered the park a few blocks away. A frequented location. Joined by trousers worn over too-small jeans, fingerless gloves on his hands, he’s a sore sight to see. While he stands in the cluttered disarray of their kitchen which could barely be classified as such, he hears a curious rustling sound coming from the living room area, behind him. For now, he must focus on evenly distributing this chalky powder in their old mugs, so it is easily ignored—that is, until he hears Paul’s noise of satisfaction and then a squeaky call of, “Flake, Flake! Look!”

Turning to glance over his shoulder, Flake is greeted by David Bowie. With his perfect hair and handsome face. Plastered on the wide canvas of protective sleeve, posing in very David Bowie-like fashion. Flake blinks widely. Before he could even ask, Paul explains excitedly, boyish face utterly delighted as he delicately slid the vinyl out of the case, “Aljoscha got it from a record store in the West! He said it was much too important to have this on hand at all times, for any occasion that David Bowie must be played.”

“So… All occasions?” Flake replies, turning back to the hot chocolate. Paul is already placing it on the record player. The kettle screams at Flake—finally. Only took twenty minutes. He lifts it from the stove with a semi-gloved hand and pours the hot water into their respective mugs. And then the sound of drums, guitar, and synth fills the flat. A lovely, smooth melody. Paul already knows this record well, from use at Aljoscha’s place—he skipped ahead. The third track, Flake knows, is his favorite. It’s very unlike him, really. Paul is the type to maintain appearances—he has to be the punk rocker who listens to trash, not coherent, beautifully conducted sound such as David Bowie. Or, God forbid, Pink Floyd. Fleetwood Mac. U2. The Beatles. The Stones. (Although, to be fair, everyone loves them, regardless of image or background.)

But if it’s just the two of them, lost in the recesses of their place of contentment, nothing is a guise. Paul can dance to David Bowie and worry about nothing. Flake has seen it, firsthand, you know. Paul dancing to something as musically smooth and gentle as David Bowie is like the falling snow outside, rather than the lightning storms of their own music, their own scene. Flake could sit and watch it, and feel inexplicably warm, instead of running to escape its unpredictability, its hysteria.

David’s deep voice is oddly sobering. It’s always been a mystery to Flake how a voice in itself is enough to make you feel safe and happy, regardless of what they’re saying, or if you even understand it.

By now, he’s finished stirring their cocoa, and turns with both mugs in his hands to see Paul just standing at the vinyl player perched on the rickety old dresser, across from their couch. His hands are placed atop the dresser, and his head is bowed low over the music. All Flake can see is his ratty, blonde ponytail resting atop the floral patterned of his wool cardigan. He’s moving his hips. Flake cracks the slightest smile, seeing this. Pacing into the living room, Flake sets the mugs on the horrifically stained table in front of the couch. That earns a glance over Paul’s shoulder. He’s grinning. His eyes are starry. Turning to the younger man, Paul begins approaching with graceful cocks of his hips, twisting his shoulders back and forth in a way that has Flake stifling a snort. 

Paul mouths along to David Bowie, hands outstretched and smile broadening, “ _And you, you can be mean. And I, I’ll drink all the time._ ”

Flake rolls his eyes and turns to scuttle back into the kitchen, but Paul puts an end to that by grabbing him by the wrist with an exclaimed laugh and saying, “Flake, come on! Dance with me!”

He draws him back without force, though Flake, somehow, finds himself unable to pull away, to withdraw into a safer, more comfortable place. He’s not a dancer. He’s not such a brazen romantic like Paul is. But even so, he’s given control of his feet, his legs, his will to the other man, who beams up at him with genuine joy, his bleached hair in total disarray around his young face. That ugly cardigan on his tiny torso, those black jeans that are very wide at the calves, unflatteringly so. But somehow, Paul rocks it. He looks quite radiant. 

Flake loses control, and Paul manages to take the reins and guide their hands together. He brings Flake’s arm around his thin waist, pulling them closer together. Their hands remain suspended, fingers tangled together clumsily. But Paul is grinning, looking up at him with a flawless expression of unencumbered delight. A moment of happiness. A memory that Flake knows will be carved into them both, even before it’s completed and filed away for the mind to affectionately dust off years later. 

Bowie’s deep, gentle voice serenades them as Paul begins spinning Flake around in an energetic turn of their bodies, rocking him side to side with a laugh bubbling out of him, gripping Flake’s weak-wristed hand enthusiastically. Flake had been so hypnotized by this version of Paul, his throat sealed, his tongue frozen, but now it reopens, and thaws—he laughs, a hitching giggle.

“This is so stupid!” Flake cries, barely heard past the overwhelming guitar, piano, drums, and tambourine. With a disagreeing shake of his head and a never-ending grin, Paul is leading him around the living room in such a graceful rocking, a spinning, somehow keeping them both afloat, avoiding corners and uneven floorboards. Flake barely keeps up. His legs simply don’t possess such fluid movements. His dancing is more akin to falling down the stairs, or trying to pull on a particularly ill-fitting pair of pants. Paul’s manner of dancing is often like sliding across a table and knocking everything off, or jumping into a ball pit—chaotic but fun, creating as much chaos as possible while still maintaining some dignity. Yet, now, he moves more like… Something Flake can’t put a finger on. Paul focuses on his _joy_ , the _music_ , rather than how he’s perceived, how much attention he can garner, or how good he looks. Whether or not this is something they _do_ , as Paul and Flake. None of that matters, not at all. 

Flake finally starts rocking with him, rather than just stumbling along like a clumsy, stubborn foal. Paul bursts out laughing, and starts jumping up and down, eyes squeezed shut and face split by a beautiful grin. He grips Flake by the skinny bicep, his other hand clutching Flake’s so tightly, they both become white-knuckled. Flake is smiling broadly himself now, in love with this moment, with Paul. He watches him, wide-eyed and awed. Paul is shaking his head wildly, ponytail flying. 

Then the song starts to die down. So, Paul stops hopping around, and looks at Flake with a heaving chest, a softening grin, his hair somehow wilder, which Flake thought impossible. He steps closer, wraps his arm around Flake’s back, hand closing around his side. Flake’s heart flutters happily, nervously in the tiny cage of his chest. Paul releases his awkward grip on Flake’s hand to instead thread their fingers together intimately. Overcome by his own strange mixture of fondness and exhilaration, Flake ducks his head to press his lips and nose to that explosion of bleached hair. Closing his eyes, he smiles into it, blushing pleasantly now, brow knit. Paul strokes his thumb over the side of his hand. That inexplicable emotion that Flake fails to properly describe floods his insides. Brightening each and every nerve along his body, warming the dark corners. Smothering the feelings of ineptitude, scattering the impatient demons of his fear, as it always sit below the surface, as unnoticeable as it can become. Flake is content. He feels loved. He has nothing to fear.

They continue moving in slight rocks, even as Bowie’s voice fades. 

The memory is finalized, and Paul pulls away. He grins up at Flake. He reaches up to fix his glasses, strokes a fingertip along the strong bridge of his nose, and turns to the record player. He lifts the needle, and puts Heroes on once again. Flake expected more dancing, but instead, Paul plops down onto the couch with a contented sigh and reaches out to take his mug of cocoa in hand.

“Looks good,” he says above the upbeat melody flooding the living room, cupping the chipped mug close to his face, breathing it in. 

Behind Paul, the snow continues to fall beyond the frosty window panes. This image of a happy, exhausted Paul carefully sipping at his cocoa, seated among a swarm of blankets, those joyful, ambiguous eyes flicking up to watch him—Flake hates that the memory is passing, as it’s being made. That in a week’s time, this will be a week ago, and then a month ago, and then a year ago, and then a decade ago. They’ll move on. Become different men. Make memories with other people. Love one another differently. Think of each other without as much fondness, without as much excitement, or fire. This spark, burning and exploding and spilling over, a feeling Flake can almost cup in his hands, will be just gone. He can’t prolong it, as he knows what time does to people. What it does to Paul. Flake misses him already, and he’s still here, looking up at him with a calmer smile, saying to him softly, “Thanks for indulging in my stupid dancing. Love you, Flake.”

**Author's Note:**

> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


End file.
